One Ember
by Damson Jam
Summary: Thrax didn't just die; he was liquidated in the most literal sense. Osmosis Jones is sure of this. So why does he have this deadened burning sensation in his cytoplasm? Osmosis Jones is going to discover that being dead is not the same as being gone. Warning: will contain mild body horror, themes of psychological abuse, slashy elements, and parasitic-style mpreg.
1. Holding On & Letting Go

'You just don't know when to quit, do ya Jones?' jeered Thrax, taking a swaggering step forward.

But then the virus hesitated, staring down at his frozen claw as if he had completely forgotten his nullifying handicap.

Ozzy seized the opportunity to strike the first blow. The smirk that flashed across the T cell's face was greeted by a counter-punch square in the jaw. He managed to morph out of the way of the next few jabs, getting a sneaky head butt in.

As more blows were exchanged, he felt the nucleic acid pumping through his system. This feeling was what he lived for. What being a white blood cell was all about.

Cockiness overtook him in his exhilaration, and he attempted a flash kick that connected with the virus's chin. It was a move that had no place in a down-and-dirty fight, and Ozzy realised his mistake in the frozen nanosecond before Thrax backhanded him mid-air with so much force it sent his head spinning, twisting his neck like a Twizzler. He also thought he heard something shatter, presumably internally, and hoped it wasn't anything important that he would need later in life. The strike sent him flying nanometres backwards, landing face down in the sclera coating of Shane's eyeball.

Heaving himself up, he felt his neck unwind itself to let in air, as he attempted to regain equilibrium.

'You know what, Jones? You want this chain so bad, Big Daddy Thrax is gonna let you have it.'

Ozzy's breath was suddenly cut off again as he felt the cold pressure of Thrax's chain constrict around his neck, the pulsating beads grinding against his jugular. His hands instinctively flew up to grasp desperately at the cord, as he gasped for air and tried vainly to create some slack.

'Looks good on you Jones. You wear it well!'

The compression on Ozzy's throat intensified as he felt Thrax pull back on the chain. He flailed wildly as consciousness began to slip away from him, delirious visions of his head popping off like a bottle cap, fizzy blue cytoplasm spilling everywhere, swam across his oxygen-starved mind.

He was only dimly aware of the rushing roar of Shane's eyelid closing in a blink, and Thrax's yelling.

Once again he was tumbling backwards, so he threw out an arm, managing to grab hold of a ridge near the tip of the eyelash before he was thrust out into oblivion.

Yanking the cord away, he sucked in a rattling breath, letting out a pained groan and massaging the depressions in his neck.

Notches caused by deoxyribonucleic beads.

Beads with the power to regulate body temperature.

Conveniently linked together in a chain.

He had Thrax's chain, clenched in his fist.

Ozzy's eyes widened with the realization that he had just snatched the key to saving Frank's life. To saving them all. He let out a triumphant laugh.

'Who's the germinator now?!'

Then he felt a jolt as the eyelash supporting him began to break away.

He heard the thundering whip-crack of the tendrils holding it in place straining and snapping, the entire row beginning to subside. A quick wrap of his knuckles against the shaft's surface confirmed his suspicion: it was a falsie. And it was falling off. He had to get his feet back on cutem firma.

He turned around just in time to see the seething virus making a lunge at him. Thrax's deadly claw was headed straight for Ozzy's abdomen, no longer glacial, but glowing with pestilence. The last thing that crossed Ozzy's mind before the claw connected was: _Well that explains the shattering sound. 'Least it wasn't my vesicles._

Given the short amount of time his body had to react, it faired pretty well. His membrane cleft apart to form a donut around Thrax's fist, away from the intensity of the virus's contagion. But not fast enough for him to avoid it completely unscathed. The tip of the spur grazed across his belly, penetrating a receptor. It stung, but it wasn't too painful.

'Can you feel the heat, Jones?' hissed Thrax, chuckling darkly.

A little bit, yeah. But it was mostly radiant heat. Ozzy wasn't boiling or blistering. That could only be a good sign. He stared into the virus's unrelentingly psychotic yellow orbs, pupils like pin pricks. Watched as his crooked sneer formed around the words, 'Too bad you won't be here to see me break my record, when I take down Frank's _pretty little girl.'_

Like halitosis was Ozzy going to let that happen.

Glancing down quickly and seeing that he had avoided impalement, Ozzy grinned defiantly back up at Thrax as he delivered the stinger, 'She ain't goin' down. _You_ are.'

Okay, so not the best comeback in all of Frank. But it got the point across.

The virus's face contorted in confusion. He shot a glare down at Ozzy's abdomen, taking in the sight of the gaping hole around his embedded hand. He tugged vainly at his wrist, but the claw was stuck steadfast in the false cuticle.

Ozzy grimaced as he coerced his upper body to split down the middle, extricating himself from under the incapacitated virus. Thrax made a clumsy grab for him as Ozzy staggered to his feet, teetering slightly as his membrane began the unpleasant process of knitting itself back together.

He was already running by the time he looked down at his newly re-meshed torso. There was a hair-line slice clean through his t-shirt. A thin, cauterised wound was barely visible through the hole.

He hugged a protective arm across his injury, urging himself forward. Behind him he heard Thrax cry out in anguish.

Nearing the base of the false eyelash, Ozzy lurched forward as it jolted again and slipped further down, more strands of glue wrenching free. Recognising his only chance for survival, Ozzy made a desperate leap, one hand outstretched, the other still grasping the chain. The row of eyelashes began to fall nanoseconds after he had propelled himself into the air. He managed to grab hold of one of the pendulous glue strings, bouncing slightly in the recoil.

Using his body weight, he swung around to watch the eyelashes descent, as they fluttered to rest in a beaker of clear liquid. He could make out the tiny figure of Thrax swimming furiously for the surface. But as the virus broke the waterline, the blazing red hue of his matrix blanched to a sickly green.

The distance between them spared Ozzy from witnessing the full visceral horror of Thrax's demise, but he could make out the virus's body writhe and twist as he diffused into nothing but a waft of smoke. Dissolving in alcohol. What a way to go.

Ozzy swayed helplessly on his glutinous life-line as two attending nurses started coercing Shane away from her father's bedside. He moaned feeble protestations as the distance between himself and Frank widened. He cried out his home's name. This couldn't be happening. He had gone beyond his duty as a solitary immunity cell, and destroyed the threat singlehandedly. So shouldn't everything be neatly resolving itself right about now? Shouldn't all the responsibility be being lifted from his shoulders? Shouldn't happily-ever-after come next? This was brucella spit!

Inching his way up the glue, Ozzy hoisted himself onto the cuticle of a real eyelash.

He looked up just in time to watch the feeble sputters of heartbeat on the ECG machine dwindle to a flat line.

Sinking to his knees, he barely registered that Shane was back beside Frank, sobbing apologies that fell on deaf ears. Dead ears. Frank was dead, and therefore, everyone else was doomed to the same fate.

Leah was a neuroglia; she would have only minutes left once the blood stopped circulating. He imagined her face, stricken, as she expends the last of her ATP and her ion pumps begin to fail. Clutching helplessly at her chest as she collapses in a heap. Small fissures splitting open across her membrane, mutilating her perfectly curvaceous form. Cytokines bleeding out from her in a sludgy pool.

His name rasping from between her voluptuous lips, repeated in a stilted, involuntary loop as she loses the ability to communicate any more cohesive thoughts.

He had no idea what would happen to Drix. The pill hadn't originated inside of Frank. He wasn't an organic, so did that mean he would last long enough to witness the full extent of the devastation?

Would he be left to watch the cells around him necrotize, the bacteria seizing control of the city? Would he feel the onset of rigor mortis, experience the chill of death? Frank's blood turning to acid, his tissue devouring itself from the inside? Drix would be trapped as the body around him decayed and putrefied. He would wish he had taken that one-way ticket out of the bladder when he had the chance.

A huge, dewy teardrop was forming in the duct above Ozzy. It gave him an idea: a last vestige of hope. His face cracked into a half-smile of determination. Osmosis Jones was never going to be the type of cell who just gave up.

He was running again, trying to outstrip the ebb of saltwater. If he could just get to the end of the lash in time, maybe he could outrun death too.

He saw the globular wall of liquid overtaking him in his peripheral vision. He was sprinting flat-out, his proteins screaming in protest as he moved faster still.

He reached the tip, and swan-dived into the abyss. The tear drop was already falling through the air underneath him, but he was falling faster. Its surface yielded under the pressure of his body and he was engulfed by the saline fluid.

o}{0}{o

The cushion of saltwater took the brunt of the impact, but Ozzy still landed with considerable force on the polyp of Frank's uvula. He lay sprawled on his side, eyes clamped shut as his only defence against the onslaught of ache and vertigo, leaving him momentarily paralytic.

He felt a large hand gently roll him onto his front. Saw shadows of movement through the delicate membrane of his eyelids.

Tentatively, he opened his eyes. Saw the looks of disbelief on his friends' faces. His head lolled to the side, as for the first time he eased up on the vice-like grip he'd been keeping on the DNA chain in his outstretched fist, letting the others see his prize.

The beads of the chain, which had been throbbing under the heat of his fingers, lay glistening on his palm.

'…oh, Jones…' he heard Leah exhale. It was the most glorious sound in all of Frank.

Somewhere above Ozzy's shoulder he heard the Chief bellow, 'Get that thing to the hypothalamus, now!'

He felt someone take hold of the chain, and lift it hurriedly away from his touch.

What happened next was inexplicable. He couldn't have previously conceived of the feelings this sudden separation triggered within him. It was as if someone had yanked an IV drip straight out of his arm. As if they had wrenched his newborn child out of his nurturing embrace. Instinctively, despite the pain and fatigue coursing through him, his hand sprang forward to latch back onto the cord.

'What the-' exclaimed the offending immunity officer, finding himself anchored down by Ozzy's resisting weight.

There was an awkward, deathly pause.

Ozzy realised that tears were tracking their way silently down his cheeks. He shook his head and closed his eyes tight-shut in order to focus his waning energy on keeping the chain in his grip, incapable of voicing the burning need he had to do so.

He felt slender, soft hands gently caress and cup the sides of his face.

'Jones, honey, its okay. You're safe now. You're back in Frank. You can let it go now. You have to: we need it, baby.'

He gazed blearily up into Leah's face. 'Ozzy,' she whispered soothingly, brushing a tear away from his cheek. He watched as her voluptuous lips formed to repeat his name again. _Repeated in a stilted, involuntary loop as she loses the ability to communicate any more cohesive thoughts._

He had to stop that from happening. So he forced every fibre of his instinct into relinquishing the chain. Watched it being whisked away before Leah pulled him close, cradling his head in her lap.

Misery washed over him, and he was weeping now. Great, shuddering sobs that racked his body as he buried his face in Leah's thigh.

She would think that they were simply tears of overwhelming relief. That he was just venting the confounding emotions that came with having narrowly avoided near-certain death.

Later on, Ozzy would convince himself that this had been the case too.


	2. Restless Dreams & Increased Appetite

_[A/N: Thank you so much for the guest review and words of encouragement. I super appreciate it._

 _So here's the next instalment! I'm afraid it's mostly set-up. I've decided to take my time with this story, and not skimp on world-building or establishing characters in order to get to the 'good stuff'…_

 _BTW, guys, this is the first proper fan fiction I've ever written, never mind submitted. I'm a pretty slow writer, and I'm going chapter by chapter. I'm already experiencing a bit of a learning curve, so I hope you bear with me. I plan on updating on Wednesdays, real-life and procrastination permitting.]_

o}{0}{o

Drix arose at precisely 8:08am. That was the time he had designated as the commencement of his daily activity.

There was something pleasing about the repetition of the number eight, both infinite and yet…solid. Well balanced. He considered that perhaps it was a little bit obsessive compulsive to be so precise with his schedule. Even though his strict time-release program was a thing of the past, he found habitual punctuality a hard thing to break.

He knew that Ozzy would have mocked him for it, if his friend had known about it, but as it was the cell was never up before him anyway. Ozzy would sleep like the dead until either prodded or shouted at. Drix was prepared to bet a large number of calories on the fact that Ozzy would be out cold right at that moment.

Drix needed only a small burst of effervescent bubbles to propel himself from beside his narrow cartilage bed to the doorway of his room. It was miniscule, even by cellular living standards: more reminiscent of a walk-in cupboard than a spare bedroom.

Ozzy had gone from a disadvantaged lower-city kid to a meagrely-waged immunity patrol officer. The apartment complex in which he now resided was situated in The Lower Back, only four blocks from his childhood neighbourhood. The apartment itself was cramped, slightly shabby, and sparsely furnished. It reflected the fact that Ozzy had been a bachelor for the entirety of his adult life, and spent most of his time out cruising the circulatory system. He had no living relatives left in Frank. There had been nobody to drop by for unexpected visits, to bestow homely gifts upon him, or chide him for not presenting a more welcoming abode.

When he had brought Drix home for the first time, the pill had been a little worried that he was intruding on his friend's already very limited space. Ozzy had pressed the issue, insisting that he wanted Drix as a housemate to help pay the rent.

Drix knew that was a lie. Ozzy had always managed to scrounge together the needed funds to make payment, and that was before he'd become known as 'The Saviour of Frank'. Now, not only had he been given full privileges with his reinstatement onto the force, he'd also been promoted to the position of a Memory T Cell, and was earning more carbs than he ever had before.

In reality, they were both uncomfortably aware of the real reason why Drix had to move in with Ozzy, but it went unsaid between them.

Ozzy had been a cell of his word, and as soon as he'd had his fill of praise, adoration, and wild celebratory parties, he'd taken Drix down to the haemorrhoid to meet Mr Thromboski, the most insidious, (figuratively) blood-sucking, (literally) anal retentive cell the pill had encountered so far in Frank.

It was like he had been spawned to be a lawyer.

Thromboski had secured Drix a green card in no time at all and honorary Frank citizenship to boot. But the key word was honorary.

Drix was an outsider, and a non-organism. Despite his contributions to the city's survival, cells were predisposed to be suspicious of foreign bodies, and preferred to form close-knit communities (which was just a well, considering there was about forty trillion of them crammed together to form one Frank).

With the recent shake-up in the cerebral hierarchy, and Tom Colonic's inauguration as the new mayor, a palpable climate of change hung over everyone's heads. Although most liked the idea of a new consorted effort towards improved health, putting it into practice was proving more strenuous than they had anticipated. The trauma caused by Thrax the last time there had been a lapse in border control was still painfully fresh in the public's collective consciousness. It was no real surprise that many of Frank's residents had become downright xenophobic.

If Drix had felt compelled to live alone, and had attempted to independently rent accommodation or invest in property (if he had possessed the means), his status and lack of a papillae trail guaranteed that he would almost certainly be rejected.

To make matters harder, the system simply wasn't set up for someone like Drix. Medicinal individuals were expected to come into the body, do their job, and then depart swiftly on the next convenient bladder express. There was no prior instance of one sticking around.

The economic migrant population of Frank consisted solely of bacteria. Despite the bad rep they had amongst the cell populace, there was a large amount of them who came to Frank with the ambition for a better quality of life, and with no intention of achieving it via criminal activity. They would inevitable end up in the gut, trying to carve out a niche for themselves in underpaid, menial positions as enteric labourers.

When the immigration advisor assigned to Drix had seen his burly stature, she had suggested that he go down to the intestine and speak to the head contractor in charge of faecal haulage. She had seemed genuinely cheery as she informed him that, due to having only one functional hand, he would easily qualify for assisted living residency in the Colonic Crypts Facility.

Drix had hightailed it out of her office so fast she was probably still trying to get the scent of wild cherry out of the soft furnishings. He had an FDA certification for Frank's sake!

So even though he never expressed it aloud, Drix couldn't be more grateful to Ozzy for helping him avoid living in a festering pocket of Frank's bowels, shovelling shit for the next decade. He'd silently vowed to demonstrate his appreciation by undertaking all domestic duties. This was proving particularly beneficial, as Ozzy was a horrendous slob with an apparent allergy to housework. Drix could see how Frank's bad influence had rubbed off on him, although he'd never insult the city in front of Ozzy.

Drix decided it was about time he got breakfast made, so he quietly exited into the corridor, trying his best to move stealthily past the master bedroom, so as not to disturb the cell slumbering inside. It was times like this that the pill lamented his lack of legs. He would have dearly loved to be able to experience the sensation of tip-toeing.

Not that it would really have made a difference. There was no way that Ozzy could have heard any commotion over his own snoring.

Drix risked a peek inside. In the dim light he could make out Ozzy sprawled across the bed at an angle, looking oddly similar to a shimmery blue starfish, wearing nothing but a pair of polka dot boxer shorts and thoroughly entangled in a knotted mess of blanket. His head was tilted back, a splash of drool bubbling in the corner of his gaping mouth, as he emitted from it what sounded like a cross between stomach gurgles and a windstorm in a partially blocked nasal passage.

Drix wondered how Leah put up with it. He was pretty sure earplugs had to be involved. Then again, the loud obnoxious noises probably made it easier for her to get up early in the morning to depart for Cerebellum Hall. As Tom Colonic's newly appointed P.A, her work days started at the crack of dawn and carried on well into the evening. At least she finally seemed to be thriving and getting the recognition she deserved.

Since the day Thrax had been defeated, and they had exchanged kisses fuelled by the fear of loss and the joy of re-union, Ozzy and Leah had become an official item.

Leah had her own, much more luxurious condo up in the prestigious estate known as Medulla Drive. However, in order to be with Ozzy she spent most of her out-of-office hours round at his apartment, where they now co-habited his bed at night.

Honestly, Drix had been surprised that they had actually stayed together, seeming earnest in making a long-term go of it. He was very aware of his social ignorance, but when the pill had witnessed their earlier interactions there had appeared to be little more than flirtatious bravado from him, and coyly disinterested rebuffing from her.

A small, vindictive part of Drix's mind thought that she might only be interested in Ozzy now that he had gained recognition and fame.

But he also had to concede that there was a chance that he was just a teeny bit jealous.

It wasn't as if Drix was sexually attracted to Ozzy. He was devoid of interest in that kind of activity in general. It just wasn't in his nature; those types of impulses weren't hard-wired into him like they were in organic beings. At best he felt apathetic, and at worst slightly nauseated, by the intricacies of cell bonding.

He was also fairly sure that Ozzy was strictly heterosexual, and if anything quite close-minded and traditionalist about relationships. Drix didn't want to scare him off by admitting to any feelings he may be harbouring. Even if Ozzy was receptive to Drix's advances, his was still a hot-blooded cell with natural urges, and Drix knew he couldn't cater to his needs, or satisfy him physically.

At least in their current, bromance-esque relationship he could be close to Ozzy, even if it meant watching him find happiness in the arms of another cell.

There were certain aspects of a romantic relationship Drix found appealing.

Like cuddling.

He wondered what it would be like to cuddle Ozzy. The cell looked so soft and warm. But then he imagined that his own embrace would feel like being pressed against a cold, unyielding wall…

Drix realised that he'd been floating in front of Ozzy's bedroom for far longer than he had intended. The contemplations of his complex feelings towards the currently prostrate cell, who was at that moment snuffling noisily into his pillow, were swiftly secreted to the back of his mind.

He was just recommencing his journey along the hallway towards the communal chamber when he heard it. Barely audible beyond the threshold, Ozzy groaned out a single word, in a throaty voice laced with slumber:

' _Thrax.'_

o}{0}{o

Having arrived in the kitchenette, Drix set to work on preparing a plentiful, cooked breakfast for Ozzy. He himself didn't need to eat, but he had decided it was important for his personal growth that he develop some hobbies outside of congestion eradication. He'd discovered that he garnered great satisfaction out of cookery. And he seemed to have an intrinsic talent for it, despite the limitations of having only one hand.

When being a cold pill had been his sole pre-occupation, having a cannon instead of an arm had seemed perfectly acceptable. But now that he was moving beyond that, and had started trying to accomplish everyday tasks; he'd realised just how significant his disability was.

It was a setback that he was working hard to overcome. Drix wanted to be useful in a non-symptom relief capacity, now that his medicinal capabilities were largely defunct. He also wanted to be an asset to Ozzy in his crime-solving duties.

So he'd taken to studying, determined to supplement his specific medical knowledge with general expertise. On evenings when Ozzy's attention was focused on Leah, he would abscond to the Dream Memory Library and while away the hours in the few LTM depositories not dedicated to sport statistics.

Having thoroughly and uniformly sliced the mushroom polyps, Drix turned his attention to the stove in order to fry some rashers of lipid.

Humming tunelessly to himself over the sizzle of hot fatty-acids, he switched on the small TV (tract vision) on the sideboard in time to catch the tail-end of a news report on NNN.

'… _And finally, a former member of the Salmonella Mafia faces rectal extradition today following the climactic conclusion to yesterday's trial. Bacterium Vito C. 'Clampy' Jejuni was charged with multiple counts of perverting the course of stomach acid and attempted food poisoning._

 _Immunity officer Osmosis Jones and his pill associate are at it again: proving invaluable in the arrest and successful prosecution of Mr Jejuni. Whoever said one cell can't make a difference? And now over to Mindy with the flatulence report…'_

Drix smiled sheepishly to himself. Ozzy considered the pill his patrol partner, but in actuality he wasn't an official member of the immunity force. Although Drix liked to consider himself a 'consultant' to the police, at the end of the day he wasn't paid for his services.

Unable to secure a proper job, he had elected to assist Ozzy with criminal investigations in an amateur capacity. There had been no objection from law enforcement superiors, who tuned a blind eye to this breach of policy. They must have realized that allowing him into the fold was the best way of demonstrating their gratitude for his aid in thwarting Thrax.

Drix was content with the unsanctioned arrangement. He felt that he was doing an exceptional job in both protecting Ozzy, and aiding in the capture of criminal scum. For now, that was all he wanted.

The news turned to a soft-story about the current shortage of potato chips. Drix soon lost interest as reporter Trudy blabbered inanely on, so he turned the tube off again.

When the food was nearly ready and gently steaming, he bellowed happily for Ozzy to join him, and heard an unenthusiastic grunt of recognition.

o}{0}{o

He was just arranging the breakfast fry-up onto a platelet as Ozzy sauntered into the kitchenette, still wearing nothing but his boxers. Drix was a very modest pill, so when he realised that he could see a good 80% of his friend's cytoplasm (not to mention most of his organelles) through his membrane, he had to fight very hard not to show any signs of embarrassment.

He could feel his cheeks heating up, but as they were coloured red anyway he hoped it wouldn't be obvious. Ozzy didn't seem to notice, as he hoisted himself onto a tall stool in front of the kitchen island, scratching languidly at the cilia on his chin.

Drix supposed that he could at least be pleased Ozzy felt comfortable enough in his presence to parade around in nothing but his underwear.

He watched as Ozzy pulled the platelet of food towards him, mumbled an incoherent word of thanks, (Drix thought he made out the phrase 'home skillet', which made zero contextual sense to him) and began tucking into his meal.

Being in a constant state of hovering, Drix had no real need for a chair, so he simply positioned himself adjacent to his partner. He picked up the morning news-papillae and began pretending to read it. Ozzy clearly wasn't in a talkative mood, and Drix knew he would find it unsettling to be observed as he ate.

Ozzy's lethargic state quickly turned to one of ravenous consumption.

Trying to ignore the disgustingly messy eating habits of his companion, Drix found his attention drawn to Ozzy's downcast eyes. Dark rings encircled them, contrasting harshly against the cell's pale blue membrane. It looked as if he hadn't slept in days. Which made absolutely no sense. From Drix's cursory observations, if anything he had been sleeping a lot more recently. Maybe he was getting too much sleep. Or maybe it was the subject matter of his dreams.

'I heard you sleep-talking when I came past your room earlier. You said his name again,' Drix said simply.

Ozzy sounded despondent when he finally replied, 'Aight listen, man. Both you and Leah keep goin' on 'bout this but I already told you: I don't remember having no dreams about Thrax. That's all there is to it. It doesn't bother me, so it shouldn't bother you.'

He finished the last mouthful and got up, effectively ending the conversation. Drix decided to drop it, for now. He knew pestering Ozzy would just make the cell irritable. He didn't fully believe Ozzy's claims of sleep amnesia; he just hoped that his friend felt he could confide in him if he needed to.

Peaking over the top of the news papillae, he watched Ozzy march over to a cupboard. As the cell reached up to rummage around inside, Drix got a clear view of the mark Thrax had branded him with. A narrow, shiny streak of scarring that ran across his navel.

The moment Leah had realised that Ozzy had been hurt by the virus; she had summoned paradendritics and he'd been rushed to a germinal centre. Of course, there was no precedent for the type of lasting damage or infection that Thrax could have inflicted. His other victims had met a blisteringly explosive end shortly after making his contagious acquaintance. No time for a prognosis.

All the tests they had thought to run on Ozzy had come back negative. He'd been given a clean bill of health, and as he hadn't subsequently burst into flames, everyone believed he'd had a lucky escape.

Ozzy pulled out a box of crystallized protein flakes, and then retrieved a carton of lactose from the fridge. He perched himself back on the stool, pouring himself a heaping bowlful before setting to work on consuming that too.

This was the second recent development that slightly troubled Drix. Ozzy's appetite had apparently increased exponentially.

It was a trend that Leah hadn't picked up on (or at least she hadn't confided in Drix that she'd noticed), most likely due to the fact that she and Ozzy only really got quality time together in the dwindling evenings. She couldn't know that the large bowls of popcornea he chowed down on whilst they curled up together on the sofa to watch a late-night dream broadcast, or his frequent midnight snacks, were just the finale to days that had largely consisted of gorging himself silly.

Drix had hoped that providing hearty breakfasts for Ozzy would quell his ravenous hunger, but whilst the cell seemed genuinely grateful, he'd always followed up with a second breakfast. Then throughout the day, as they went about their police work, he would make frequent pit-stops for snacks. At the end of their shift they would detour on the way back to the apartment to collect multiple portions of takeout, all eaten before Leah got home. She would then cook a simple and nutritious meal, oblivious to the copious amounts of funk food that had preceded it, leaving Drix to watch dumbfounded as Ozzy polished that off as well.

It was almost impressive how he managed to pack it all in and not balloon in size. His physique appeared much the same as it ever was: broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist.

Except now, as Drix gave him a furtive inspection, it did seem as if the cell was starting to gain the smallest suggestion of a paunch. It was probably only visible because of the way Ozzy was sitting (Drix had to stop himself from reprimanding the cell about his poor posture), and because of his semi-nakedness, but there was no mistaking the slight protuberance of his belly.

The bulge created an upturned curve in the thin scar line drawn across it. The thought occurred to Drix that it looked a little bit like a curled lip, as if Ozzy's stomach was sneering at him. It was a weird notion, and Drix quickly shook it from his mind and raised his eyes back to staring unseeingly at the advice column on the papillae.

Ozzy finished off the crystalline flakes by picking up the bowl to slurp the last few mouthfuls down. Without a seconds hesitation he began pouring out a second serving.

Drix felt that he should probably tell Leah, but he wasn't sure how to approach it.

'Your boyfriend has been eating his way towards a diabetic coma ever since you got together,' probably wouldn't go down well.

He'd heard that couples in newly-formed romantic relationships tended to put on a little 'contentment weight', but he was pretty sure this wasn't how it worked.

o}{0}{o

When Ozzy pulled over on their way to the FPD's third precinct, and returned to the car with not one, but two boxes of glycine-glazed donuts from the stand, Drix felt he had no choice but to broach the subject.

'You know, Jones, maybe you should cut down on your glucose intake. If you keep going like this; cells are going to start mistaking you for a macrophage,' he quipped, with a small grin.

He included a little joke at the end to try to soften the criticism, but judging by the expression on his friends face, he still had a long way to go before achieving any competency in witty banter.

The impact of the death-glare Ozzy was giving him was slightly spoilt by the fact that his cheeks were stuffed with donut. Drix thought it made him look like an irritated hamster. _He's quite adorable_ , a tiny, secluded part of his mind ventured.

Ozzy swallowed hard.

''Ey! Who you callin' a macrophage, Chunky?! You have to turn sideways to fit through some sphincters! Look what you're doing to my baby right now: stretched all outta whack since you been riding shotgun. You're the one who could afford to lose a few nanograms,' he ranted back.

Drix couldn't help but be a little hurt. His innate size was a sensitive topic. But he knew what Ozzy was trying to do: distract from the actual issue in his typical, brash fashion.

He responded reproachfully, 'you know I can't help it Ozzy, I was manufactured this way. And I don't require sustenance so it's not like I can lose or gain weight-'

'So maybe you shouldn't judge what you don't understand,' Ozzy snapped back, cutting him off mid rational placation, 'You got no idea what it's like to be starving all the dang time.'

Drix took a moment to process this revelation. Ozzy had eaten more in that morning than a typical lymphocyte ate in an entire day. He chose his next words carefully, and delivered them with a quiet earnestness.

'So you are honest-to-glutinous still hungry right now?'

'Yeah…'

They exchanged a glance. Ozzy was trying to look unabashedly annoyed by Drix's prying. But the worry-line between his eyebrows, and the way he bit down on his lip, betrayed a latent anxiety.

The moment passed, Ozzy brushing it off by saying in a falsely nonchalant way, 'Let's get to the station already.'

He stuffed the unfinished donuts into the glove compartment and accelerated away, driving like a germicidal maniac with an attention deficit. Drix had reached the point where his friend's unorthodox motoring skills barely fazed him anymore. Still, he wished Ozzy would at least consider wearing a seatbelt.

As Ozzy's eyes were fixed on the artery ahead, Drix risked a quick scrutiny of the cell's abdomen. Ozzy's signature varsity-style jacket was undone. The thin white t-shirt beneath was practically membrane tight over his stomach, but there was no sign of the slight bump that Drix had seen earlier.


	3. Visiting a Murder Scene & Getting Help

_[A/N: Okay…so maybe not every Wednesday. That whole thing about real life and procrastinating; yeah that happened. And I didn't want to release another chapter until I was at least somewhat happy with it. Hopefully There's a little something in this one that makes up for the delay._

 _But anyway: it's about time we had some crime in this crime fanfic, don't you think?]_

o}{0}{o

It was 8:40pm and raining with perspiration when Ozzy and Drix got a call in from dispatch. An operator had received a distress signal about antigen gunfire outside Lalouette's Pyramid, one of the many swanky hotels and casinos situated along the Wind Pipe Strip. Paradendritics had raced to the location to find a cell shot multiple times. Technicians had worked arduously in an attempt to stabilise him, but he couldn't be saved, and was pronounced dead at the scene.

So now the duo was on their way to join the cytocide investigation.

Heavy droplets danced across the windscreen of Ozzy's car, smearing in a blur as the wipers failed to clear them away fast enough.

'Nasty night for it. I'd have thought the mayor would be trying to do something about these night sweats,' Drix pondered.

'Folks are treatin' Colonic like the solar plexus radiates out his behind, but last I checked he didn't control the weather,' Ozzy snorted.

Drix couldn't help but smile to himself over that. Ozzy would always be cynical about authority figures, even those he had helped promote to power. Still, Drix had recently been reading up on sleep hyperhidrosis, ever since the nocturnal downpours had become a more frequent occurrence, and it had given him cause for concern.

'But it could be symptomatic of any number of serious associated conditions. From hyperthyroidism to lymphoma. I was just reading this fascinating journal at the library about the correlation between the human immunodeficiency virus and-'

'And if that's your idea of a slammin' night out, then take me home.'

When Drix looked putout by Ozzy's jokey snub, the cell sighed.

Cracking a mollifying grin, he tried to re-assure his friend, 'Look chill, pill. I'm just playin'. Frank likes to snooze on the couch. It's pushed up against the radiator. Nothin' to worry your head about.'

Ozzy veered off the Carotid Artery interchange, heading into the south end of The Strip. They were quickly submerged in a spectacle of light, as the cervical nerves flashed electrochemical impulses down from the brain to the rest of the body. Neon axons in every possible colour and configuration weaved into a sea of signage and advertisement billboards.

The Pipe was a funnel of sensory overload, where exchange was constant, and change was inevitable. Every walk of micro-organism filtered through, enticed by the glitz, glamour and gluttony, but most of all by the possibility of striking it lucky and amassing a small fortune in calcium chips by the end of the night.

Drix thought it was all way too tacky and overblown, and that Frank probably really would develop hyperthyroidism at this rate.

'The Pipes and the promise of winning: they cross like Frank's fingers behind his back when he tells Shane he only had salad for lunch.' Ozzy quipped, pulling to a squealing halt in the Thyroid Plaza.

o}{0}{o

Responding Immunity had already secured the surrounding area. The flashing lights of their parked patrol cars were rendered insignificant against the backdrop of auroral decadence.

A marquee had been erected to the left of the entrance to the Lalouette's Pyramid Casino; next to a large ornate support column that Ozzy was fairly certain didn't actually support anything. It worked to protect the evidence from the torrential sweat, and obscured the victim's remains from the few bystanders milling about.

A uniformed officer was standing guard by the marquee's flap. Tall, expansive (particularly in the chest region), with a tight cilium bun and scarlet lipstick. She was a white blood cell they both recognised from the Third Precinct. Rhonda Pectoralis. A scary mix between ward matron and heavyweight boxer; she took no spit from anybody.

Jerking her head at them in recognition, she unfolded her brawny arms into a less intimidating pose as they crossed the police tapeworm and came to stand in front of her.

'Evenin' boys,' she rumbled, in a voice that was equal parts fruity and husky.

'Ain't nobody fonder of my lady Rhonda. Queen of the Amazon cells. Now, what we got here?'

Rhonda rolled her eyes at Ozzy's greeting, and kept her face slack as she responded, 'Straight up cold-blooded murder, Jonesy. The perp unloaded a full cartridge into our cell. Never stood a chance. Barclay's team are in there still documenting the body.'

'Have they been able to identify the victim?' Drix asked.

'Receptor prints match the record for a Darrell Roots. Went by the nickname 'Smoove'. Various previous opioid possession charges. Supposedly rehabilitated four years ago and clean now. Wife and a kid. Worked as a barber in Scalpfield,' Rhonda rattled off smoothly.

Ozzy sounded contemplative as he muttered, 'Rough place to try and live honest, what with the illegal lice breeders, scratching, and the Dandruff Disciples biker gang.'

'And a particularly stressful profession, considering the current receding hairline,' Drix added, 'Any Witnesses?'

'Not when I got here. If there were any most of 'em probably fled when the firing started. The rest would'a slunk off when they heard immunity sirens.'

'Aight, so we're lookin' at a endorphin deal gone wrong.' Ozzy surmised, matter-of-factly.

'You shouldn't make deductions without first analysing the facts, Jones,' Drix chided.

'Okay Sherlock, but it's a pretty safe bet ain't it?'

'Did-did you just make a gambling pun on purpose?'

'Is Osmosis Jones here yet?'

Their chitchat was interrupted by a cell backing out of the marquee, wearing a white examiners suit and carrying an evidence bag containing something gelatinous that none of them wanted to dwell on too long.

She swiftly deposited the bag in a hard-shell transport container by the side of the flap, pulling off her protective mask, gloves and hood to reveal a pretty, if somewhat angular face, framed by long, flaxen cilia immaculately braided out of the way.

'Oh, I see that our Saviour has finally graced us with his presence,' she remarked, but her tone was a playful one.

'What's happenin', earth angel.' Ozzy responded, laying on the charm once again, 'Drix: meet Collagenette Barclay. Finest forensic cytologist in all of Frank. And when I say fine, I mean _fine_.'

She shot Ozzy a warning glance before extending a hand in greeting to Drix.

'The pleasure's mine. You can call me Genie.'

''Cause she works magic, she's blue, and if you rub her the right way all your wishes come true.'

' _Jones_ …'

Ozzy's smirk subsided, as he wilted under the disapproving looks he was receiving on all sides. He decided to make a swift getaway.

'If you need me, I'll be in the tent,' he mumbled, slinking through the flap and out of view.

Drix fiddled with his cannon, not quite meeting Genie's eyes as he faltered, 'Miss, uh-Ma'am, I'd like to apologise for my partner's uncouth remarks-'

'Thanks, Mr Drix. But it's not like I haven't heard them before. Jones and I have worked together in the past.'

'You sure it was just working?'

'Yes, thank you, Rhonda.'

'Mm-hmm. Well if that boy don't settle down he's either gonna find himself slapped with a child support claim, or slapped by Leah Estrogen. Probably both,' Rhonda declared, placing her large hands on even larger hips.

'You know its all bark and no bite. That cell is loyal as a canine bacterium and crazy about Leah,' Genie sighed, 'Anyway, I prefer my males a bit beefier. You know: the strong, protective type… '

She turned redder than an enflamed gum line when Rhonda gave Drix a pointed look.

'I should get back to the deceased now,' she said hurriedly, now her turn to avoid making eye contact as she addressed the pill, 'If you'll come with me.'

Nonplussed by Genie's sudden change in demeanour and Rhonda's triumphant smirk, Drix followed the cytopologist into the marquee, where he was introduced to her two male subordinates.

One was a champagne pink dendritic cell known simply as Hemato (Drix didn't know if it was his first or last name, and nobody was forthcoming with that information), who had ridiculously curly folds sprouting out of his head like an afro, and who seemed way too happy for someone kneeling in swirling pools of sweat and cytoplasm, face practically thrust inside the hole-riddled chest cavity of the dead cell.

The other was a bespectacled neuron cell named Jack Lumbar, who despite being tall and reedy had a cherubic face and looked far too young to be a certified crime scene analyst. His reticence seemed to rival the exuberance of his peer, as he meticulously photographed the expended shell casings scattered about and their position in relation to the body.

Ozzy did a quick count up.

'Seven casings. That's overkill. Whoever it was that shot him wanted Roots dead.'

Hemato twisted on his haunches to face him, pulling away his mask to reveal an impish grin.

'Not just that, but the first bullet was shot at point blank range, straight to the Nucleolus.'

Hemato pointed with two fingers, and mimed shooting Ozzy in the chest.

'Our boy knew what he was doing. That's a kill shot if ever I saw one. But he still kept going. There's more to this attack than Reynaud's-cold assassination. He was fuelled by hatred. Ruthless. One pissed off mother-'

'We get it Hemato,' Genie interjected, 'the killer used an apoptosis inducing weapon, but before being turned into the cell equivalent of a colander, there's no sign that the victim was anything less than perfectly healthy.'

'So you're more likely looking for a germ packing Black Market heat than a rogue immunity agent,' Jack Lumbar concluded quietly.

'The sweat has compromised most of the associative evidence. But there are indications that the body was tampered with perimortem,' Genie relayed briskly, 'There are no identifying personal effects present. No wallet, keys, cellular phone, or wedding ring. I've spoken to the first responders and they've confirmed that the body hasn't been moved and nothing has been removed from the scene by personnel. It's highly likely that the killer stripped the victim of valuables following the assault.'

'Any sign that the departed was looking to score some Pep?' Ozzy asked.

'None. The body is clean - colloquially speaking - and there isn't even a sniff of opioids in the surrounding area. I've made a thorough search,' Jack answered solemnly.

Ozzy looked slightly deflated when he said, 'Yeah, well the murdering excuse-for-a-mucus probably took back his stash when he jacked the dude's personables.'

'Or another scum-sucking bacterium could have looted the corpse before emergency response arrived,' Jack chipped in. 'That happens all the time, apparently.'

'No witnesses, no leads, and sweat-stained evidence. This investigation's gonna be easier than diffusin' through a semi-permeable membrane,' Ozzy declared, tone oozing sarcasm.

Having remained quiet throughout the analysis, Drix finally spoke, 'You would think they'd have a surveillance system at a place like this.'

Everyone turned to stare at him. Ozzy's expression was particularly comical.

'Sorry for intruding on your theorising,' the pill mumbled.

'It's not that, it's just-we're being a bunch of dead brain cells!' Genie decried.

Hemato cheerfully slapped a hand to his forehead, as if making an attempt to stop the flow of stupidity, and Jack arched a quizzical eyebrow at her reference to the death of his kind.

Ignoring them both, she rushed out through the marquee flap, and they all scrambled after her.

o}{0}{o

Only ten nanometres from the shooting spot they found a CCTV nerve ending mounted high on the glandular wall and pointing towards the north side of the plaza.

'Well spit, what do ya need us guys for? That thing will have caught everything!' Hemato groaned, throwing his arms up dramatically in mock exasperation, 'Still, at least we racked up some tissue time outside the lymph for once, hey Lumby?'

'Does this mean I can get back to my binocular disparity experiments now?' the neuron asked, looking earnest.

o}{0}{o

Light was gently cascading through tall, filthy windows. Debris particles clung thickly to the panes, diffusing a warm haze across the barren enamel tiles.

Ozzy was standing in the middle of an abandoned open-plan factory floor, probably somewhere in the Upper Pancreas District. He couldn't be sure; he had no idea how he'd come to be there, or why. The logistics of his situation didn't concern him; he was too pre-occupied by the sight of the body.

It had to be a body. The figure's outline was clearly discernable under the stained tarp. This was another murder scene, and this time he was alone with the recently deceased.

He took a tentative step forward, his shadow falling across the lifeless form. Steeling himself, he lent forward and pulled off the covering, tossing it away in one swift motion.

And found his eyes meeting the glazed stare of Leah's corpse.

He felt his legs turn to jelly, and give out underneath him. Collapsing beside his dead girlfriend, he ran a trembling thumb across her cheek. Felt the coldness of her pallid membrane.

'It's a shame, really. That girl had it _going on_. All the way up from her velvet heels. And boy was she _feisty_.'

Ozzy turned his head towards the previously unnoticed observer to his private moment of grief. The individual's position, leaning against the far wall, cast him in shadow. Ozzy couldn't distinguish his facial features. It didn't really matter; there was no mistaking that syrupy voice.

'Wore her skirts a little too short though, made it a little too obvious. I prefer a challenge,' the virus mused.

'Thrax…' Ozzy breathed.

'In the flesh, baby,' he crooned, striding forward.

Light bathed across his back, causing his red matrix to appear glowing with internal fire.

'Did…did you do this?'

'Feelin' a little slow tonight, are we Jones?' Thrax leered, 'Do ya see any other viral killers hanging around?'

Too many powerful emotions were fighting for dominance inside Ozzy. It rendered him mute; unable to form a response that adequately encapsulated his pure loathing for the virus, his shock, the utter despair at his loss, and his craving for retribution.

Thrax's grin spread wider as he watched Ozzy's inner torment broadcast across his face. Indifferent to the cell's seething silence, he continued the conversation on his own.

'Thought me and you needed some quality alone time. 'Least here I can make that happen. It was so easy to strangle that pretty little neck. Even easier than yours! Not to mention _Therapeutic_. Listenin' to that whore moan. If I'd known before, well, maybe I'd a' taken the time out to choke a botulism every once in a while. Guess my priorities were elsewhere.'

Fighting against the spasms of revulsion surging through him, Ozzy remembered he had his granzyme gun holstered under his jacket. He hurriedly pulled it out, fumbling, almost dropping it, before pointing the barrel directly between Thrax's eyes. More or less. Ozzy was loath to admit it, but he really was a subpar marksman.

'Come on, Jones. Haven't you had enough killing me for one lifetime?' Thrax sighed, unfazed by the threat. He started walking calmly across the room towards Ozzy.

The anguished T cell fired off a shot that impacted above the virus's left eye, ripping through in a spray of protease, and leaving a gaping exit wound as the ballistic fragments embedded themselves in the wall behind.

Thrax paused in his approach. But he didn't keel over into a twitching pile of rapidly expiring pathogen, as Ozzy would have hoped.

' _I guess not_ ,' the virus muttered, sneer gone, the humour in his voice supplanted by dripping venom, 'Even though you were _so thorough_ last time. Didn't you enjoy obliterating me, baby? I'd have liked to think you got a sick little kick out of it.'

Ozzy stared transfixed at the grisly hole blown clean out of the virus's forehead. Thrax was inching his way closer to him again.

'Didn't you feel the slightest bit guilty?'

'Frank no!' Ozzy snarled back, finding his voice, 'You were tryin' to burn us up! You've already taken down multiple humans. Massacred the trillions that lived in 'em. You got off on their destruction. Even old ladies and little kids, you sick faecal coliform! Allowed to break out, you'd have been worse than Dengue and Marburg put together!'

'Flattery won't get you anywhere. But they should paraphrase that last one for my entry in the medical books.'

Ozzy was seized by the desire to wipe the returning smirk clean off Thrax's face. And he knew just what to say to get under the virus's matrix.

'Well halitosis, there won't be any entry now! Wish I could take credit for it, but you pretty much killed yourself. Got stuck and fell in alcohol all on your own, ya big rectal thermometer.' Ozzy jeered, plastering on the widest Cheshire cat grin he could muster, and practically aglow with bravado. 'Now the cause of those people's death will forever be a mystery to medical science. Statistically insignificant. Ain't nobody gonna remember you. Stick that on your claw…and…choke on the…fumes…'

His insolence floundered at the sight of the transformation that was taking place before him. Thrax's mouth was stretching impossibly long; a gaping maw as he gurgled out:

' _Can you even begin to imagine what it felt like?_ '

He staggered nearer, his matrix pigmentation transmuting to the same putrid green it had been when he was liquefying in the beaker. His eyes fizzled and shrivelled in their sockets, cracking like a riverbed after a long drought. His dreads melted to oily black tendrils, dribbling down across his head.

'… _Ethanol eating through my membrane…_ _'_

Large globs of matter began disgorging from his arms and torso, leaving a sludgy trail in his nightmarish wake.

Desperately, Ozzy raised his gun and shot again at the deformed virus, but the blast passed into him with a gag-inducing suctioning noise, and slime enveloped the hole.

'… _Eviscerating my proteins and dissolving my lipids…'_

A web of holes was opening up across Thrax's mangled face. His limbs twisting and stretching out into a stringy mass. He had traversed the gap that the large room had presented. Leah's body was the only obstacle between them now.

'… _Release couldn't come quick enough…'_

The quagmire that had once been Thrax's lower body began to ooze across Leah's carcass, engulfing it. Ozzy let out a howl of protest, but he couldn't risk plunging his hands into the feculence to try and get her back. Infuriated by his own impotence, He began firing burst after burst into Thrax, continuing to pull ineffectually at the trigger even when the magazine had been completely emptied.

' _Quit it. It's getting tiresome._ '

A gnarled hand, index claw ablaze, sprang out and latched onto the gun barrel. Ozzy let out of a yelp of pain as the scolding heat boiled the end into a lump of molten granules. He hurriedly dropped the grizzled remains of his weapon.

Screwing up his eyes and bracing himself, the cell knew that at any moment he would be plunged into the primordial swamp that had once been a deadly contagion.

'You know what? In spite of all this, I think we should put the whole 'you heroically curing me' thing behind us.'

Suddenly the virus was back to his sleek red self. He stood there; tall, formidable, and completely unmarked, as if the last few minutes had never happened. Leah was nowhere to be seen.

Thrax pulled the traumatised cell unceremoniously to his feet, and began dusting him off. His hands moved deftly over Ozzy's front as he straightening the cell's jacket. Ozzy surprised himself when he didn't instinctively recoil from the virus's touch.

'I could never stay mad at you. Not when you're making it up to me in such a…unexpected and special way.'

'Thrax…' Ozzy choked, completely baffled by the virus's sudden attentiveness. The monster who had once tried to kill him, who had just brutally strangled the love of his life, was caring for him like he was a toddler cell who had fallen over in the playmarrow.

Where was Leah's body? How had Thrax mutated himself, and then reverted to normal in an instant? Was he going completely nuts?

'Just relax and let Big Daddy tend to you.'

But Ozzy tensed up when the virus started stroking his head cilia back into its usual quaff. The gesture was too intimate. He became constricted with nausea as he looked up at Thrax's snug face. Because it felt so soothing, and he knew that it was so completely taboo.

'Get away from me!' he whimpered, 'I don't want to make it up to you. I want you the Frank out of here!'

Ozzy had hoped to sound defiant, but his voice had come out weak and pathetic, like that of a frightened child.

The virus withdrew, and regarded him with bemusement.

'But you know why I _am_ still here, don't you baby?'

Ozzy clenched his teeth. Of course he didn't know. If he had, he would have set to work correcting the reason straight away, and this patronizing sack-of-sebum would have been the echo of a fart in the wind by now.

Thrax gave him a momentary dissatisfied look, and then shrugged it off along with the lack of response.

'It's the chain, Jones. The cells o' this body don't have a clue what it's capable of. Thinkin' it just contains hypothalamic beads off some long-dead unhygienic suckers. But I created that cord from my own protein strings. You haven't truly beaten me long as it's still out there. Part of you realises that. That's why I come visiting every night. I'm a reminder that your job ain't done yet. But get your hands on the chain; keep it close and I'll be out your dreams for good. Cross Frank's heart.'

'Like you swearin' on Frank's life could convince me,' Ozzy spat back with a humourless laugh. 'This body means less than spit to you.'

'It's not like I can swear on my own,' the virus retorted coolly, eyebrow cocked. 'Besides, you're gonna _need_ that chain. Otherwise it's only a matter of time before you _really_ feel the heat.'

'Why are you tellin' me this? Why would you help me?'

Thrax slowly and deliberately reached out his hand, and once again Ozzy failed to make an evasive move or block the attempt. The red palm pressed gently against his stomach, clawed fingers splayed.

A pleasant, warm sensation began spreading through Ozzy from the point of contact. He inhaled sharply as Thrax leaned in, bringing his mouth close to the side of the cells head. He felt the brush of the virus's dreads against his neck, the humid warmth of his breath as he whispered:

'Go get it, baby.'

There were mere inches between them now. Their proximity was intoxicating to Ozzy. He felt his eyelids half-close in ecstasy. The rational voices screaming in his head about how much he hated Thrax were drowned out by a thrum of primal desire. He couldn't fight this. It was like trying to defy the pull of gravity, or stop the circulation of blood through sheer force of will.

Thrax's lips looked so inviting, and Ozzy had been so insatiably hungry. All he wanted was a little taste. He swallowed thickly, his own lips parting slightly in anticipation.

That was when Thrax pushed him hard in the gut.

Caught off-balance, He felt himself falling backwards.

o}{0}{o

Ozzy jerked awake, letting out a squawk as he toppled off the bed. Secretion clung to his membrane, and he was trembling violently. The blankets had been thrown off, and now lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. He saw that the bed was deserted; it's other usual occupant conspicuously absent. Fear gripped him.

He pelted down the corridor, skidding into the main chamber and nearly careened headlong over the side table in his frantic search. As it turned out, Leah was curled up on the sofa. She stirred at the commotion he was making, shooting him a drowsy glare.

'You kept whispering his name, and you kicked me in the back,' she muttered after a long moment, tone heavy with fatigue.

'Oh. Sorry,' he responded lamely.

She cast him a once over inspection, taking in the sight of his clammy cilia plastered to his head, his shaking frame, and the dark bags of his eyes.

'You look awful,' she croaked.

'Well dang, can't say the same for you. Stop bein' so perfect and gorgeous at three in the morning, it ain't natural. Makin' us mere mortals look like spit,' he teased, trying to inject some light-heartedness into the gloom.

She chuckled, but it sounded hollow. Letting out an involuntary moan of effort, she pulled up sluggishly into a sitting position, cupping her face in her palms and massaging gently in an act of self-soothing and awakening.

When she lowered her hands to look at him again, her expression was dull.

'We can't go on like this, Ozzy.'

'I know,' he said flatly.

'Do you really, though? Me an' Drix try to talk about it but you just clamp up and it goes on the same. Do you realise how close I am to being done?'

Her words dropped like a lead weight in his stomach.

'Girl, don't—don't talk like that-'

'I'm sorry, Ozzy, I just want to forget,' she cut him off abruptly, 'Forget what he did to me. To Frank. But you keep on reminding me. You can't seem to let it go. You need professional help.'

There was a pregnant pause as he considered her implicit ultimatum.

'You're right. I know I have to stop this,' He answered slowly, realisation dawning. 'That's why I already started gettin' help.'

'Really?' she breathed with surprise and relief, 'Oh, thank Frank.'

'I know what I got to do, now.'

'Come here, baby,' she cooed, opening up inviting arms, beckoning him to her silk nightgown-covered bosom.

He joined her on the couch, where they embraced, practically melting into one another in their shared exhaustion.

But later on Ozzy lay staring at the pockmarked ceiling of their bedroom, long after Leah had managed to drift off again. He was too painfully aware of how cold her feet were; her legs entwined in his own were like ice compared to the tingling warmth of his cytoplasm, heat still emanating from the point where Thrax had touched him.


End file.
